


Hello again, friend.

by dontdeleteme



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mentions of Character Death, Spoilers, Therapy, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontdeleteme/pseuds/dontdeleteme
Summary: Elliot thought letting go of control meant losing himself completely. But a person is a person, a fractal of identities all the way down.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains spoilers for the entire series.

Hello, friend. 

It's been a while. 

I hope you don't think I forgot about you.  
I know do that a lot- forget. But not you. I created you, so that makes it easier. 

Krista still doesn't know you exist. But now that the illusion of separation has at long last shattered she encourages me - him - 

...

she encourages us to talk. 

I don't know why I keep secrets from her after everything we've been through. Maybe it's the ever-present fight or flight, the undercurrent of panic that persists even through the slowest of days. Since leaving the hospital I haven't touched a keyboard once; withholding information feels like the only form of control left. 

It's hard to know who I am apart from the secrets. From hiding. From silence. 

From him. 

But You know me. Maybe better than I know myself. So I'm... asking for your help. 

Are you still with me?


	2. The Only Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot goes to therapy.

I'm thinking about Angela again. I try not to do this because it hurts. But the self awareness that I actively avoid remembering my dead childhood friend causes something in my chest worse than pain. 

Krista says feelings demand to be felt. I think she read that in one of her YA novels. The genre title is a little ironic when you consider it. Young adult. Aren't most protagonists closer to children who grew too fast because the world couldn't protect them? 

Maybe that's why Krista tears through them while her biographies and medical texts only leave the shelf as a group when it's time to move. 

She has a new office. It's small, a seventh floor walk-up with a peeling beige hallway dividing her practice from a dentist. There are no paintings, just three plastic chairs, a water cooler, and humming red EXIT sign. 

Obviously Krista didn't choose this spot for the ambiance of metal scraping bone. She only works 8AM to 1PM, relying on the flickering hope that business decorum and a shoddy buzzer system will keep anyone but trusted clients from entering her space. 

I never see her other clients. I wonder if she has any, or if she specifically schedules our appointments to keep me away from them. 

To keep them safe from me, or anyone who might follow me. 

I don't blame her. 

I think Angela would have related to YA protagonists. When we were kids she read books all at once, but in high school she ditched Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler for AP and never looked back. 

There's that feeling again. Like swallowing dry ice. Like -

"Are you still with me, Elliot?" 

Krista shifts her weight, and I hear the leather of her new chair. I know her eyes are on me, but even when I look at her I can't see anything but - 

"Is someone else present?" she prompts. 

I shake my head. 

Sorry. 

One day I'll introduce you, I promise. 

"What are you thinking about?"

Angela. 

I turn my head, searching for anything to fixate my eyes on. Cardboard boxes. Air vent. Window lock. Floor tiles. Diploma. Outlet. 

EXIT. 

"Elliot." 

I blink, and for a moment the letters form a different message. 

SURVIVE. 

I look at Krista again. Her eyes are tired but her face is kind. It's too much. 

"I don't know."

"Elliot, if-"

"I don't know, Krista, I'm trying-"

"Okay."

She takes a long, slow breath. I watch the silver chain around her neck rise and fall. 

"Nervous systems that have experienced trauma need to co-regulate with others to understand what it is like to be calm. To be able to calm themselves. Elliot, if all you do is sit with me in silence for sixty minutes once a week, it is okay." 

Her body distorts into a blur of color and light. Heat. Air. Krista takes another breath. 

"I understand that talking aloud is difficult for you. Maybe it feels like something is being taken from you. My job is not to take from you, Elliot. It to help you give yourself- the parts of yourself- what they need."

She takes my stillness as sign to keep going. 

"I don't need to know you're trying, Elliot, they do. They are talking to you. I can't hear them, but I know that you can. I see it when you come into my office and listen to them. 

But if you never respond, if you push it all away- what does that tell them?"

I blink. The tears fall. 

"What they have to say is important. Your mind wants to be, Elliot. The best thing you can do is let it."

When I leave Krista's office, Darlene is waiting outside. I pull my hood up. She throws her arm around my shoulders and I do not flinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "THE ONLY WAY OUT OF THIS SITUATION IS THROUGH IT  
> SAVE THE EXIT LOCATED UNDER GLOWING RED LETTERS  
> A DOOR THAT STAYS CLOSE NO MATTER HOW FAR I TRAVEL  
> A DOOR WITH NO LOCK  
> A DOOR WITH NOTHING BEHIND IT  
> SOMETIMES I TOUCH THE HANDLE  
> IT IS HOT  
> BUT I AM NOT BURNED"  
> 2018


	3. What We Owe Ourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: 
> 
> depiction of parental abuse

"Oh my god, dude, wear a fucking mask!" Darlene shouts at the transit cop rushing in our direction, raising her middle finger just as the doors slide shut. The train jerks forward, and she swings her body around freely, hanging on to the strap. 

Darlene, Queen of Perpetual Motion. 

I shrink down against the seat, leaning my head back against wall. Despite the unpleasant view of dozens of dead flies trapped between an Apple air pods poster and the cracked plastic window, I'm enjoying the dopamine rush of finding an open corner seat at this time of day. 

Darlene doesn't worry about finding space. Darlene is a force of nature. 

Her energy is high these days; since she started ritalin and stopped cigarettes she's almost been like how she was when we were kids.  
Maybe she's seeing someone. For months she would come home elated or pissed off depending on her most recent interaction with Dom. The status of their relationship is no more clear to me than it was the day they bailed on Budapest. I'm trying to remember the last time she talked about her dating life. She mostly shares those details with- 

"Hellooo, Earth to Elliot," Darlene says, kicking my shoe with her holographic boot. "Jesus, you haven't even smoked yet and you're already spacing out." 

"Sorry, I'm just... tired, you know. From earlier."

She never pries into my relationship with Krista. Maybe she's not sure which one of us Krista even talks to. Or maybe she doesn't want to bring up triggers- mine or hers. 

"Did you eat anything today?" Darlene slides a protein bar from her coat pocket before I can respond. She throws it to my lap and drops herself onto the seat next to me. 

"I'd have to remove my mask to eat it. Are you gonna flip me off too?" I ask. 

"Ugh. Eat it when we get home, then."

Honestly, we're just going to pick up. We moved in together after I left the hospital, and she's been as close to hovering as someone like her is capable of. 

I mostly don't mind. Doing anything with Darlene feels like an adventure. And despite the lack of present danger in our lives, even the simplest of errands can take a full day when I'm alone. I've missed more train stops than I can count, gone back to the old apartment or Coney Island and bailed on plans I'd made with her or Leon. Maybe she's worried about leaving me alone too long. At least Flipper has someone else to walk her. 

Mr. Robot would not like the level of attention Darlene has been paying to my health and whereabouts. He'd probably do something drastic to shake her off. But he hasn't been around much. 

I don't know why I have. 

I didn't expect to be here. 

I chose not to die. But what do I do with all this life?

"Why are they even charging fare!? We're in the middle of a pandemic! They're basically saying 'Pay US so you can play russian roulette with your lungs in an underground tunnel! $2.85 to expose your immune system to a DEADLY VIRUS!'" Darlene shouts at the other passengers, who ignore her dutifully. She gives up and rests the side of her body against mine until we reach our stop. 

The sun is finally going down. A whisper of relief, like when teachers would turn out the fluorescent classroom lights for just a few merciful minutes of darkness. The night is familiar; it feels safer, less exposed. 

Around 2 AM I wake to a stiff neck from passing out on the couch again. I hear a sharp, humorless voice nearby. 

"Elliot, you have to learn how to use these. Your father isn't here anymore to do it for you."

I rub my eyes and look across the hall to see my mother standing with a young boy in our bathroom, the only source of light in the otherwise dark apartment. She huffs as he tries to untangle the power cord, his hands moving slowly, anxiously. 

I drop back down, waiting for my system to go offline again. But I'm upright a moment later when I hear a slap. 

"Never mind, i'll do it. Again."

The sound my blood rushing in my ears catches up to me before the sound of my own voice. 

"Stop! What's wrong with you!? He's a kid, you can't just hurt him when he doesn't understand!" 

My mother startles, and stares at me. It's a look I recognize, although I was not usually the one on the receiving end of it. She considers me for a long time. I start to wonder if she even knows who I am when she speaks again. 

"Fine. You don't like how I'm teaching my son? You do it." She grabs her purse from a hook by the wall, yanking a cigarette and lighter from the outer pocket. "I'm going out. I hope he isn't bald when I come back."

She slams the door shut behind her. I turn to look at my younger self, clippers in hand, arms dangling by his sides. His eyes flicker, here and far away all at once. 

"Hey. Don't worry about her. C'mere," I say, gesturing toward the mirror. He shuffles toward me quietly and we pause, regarding the reflections staring back at us. 

I take the clippers. "It's pretty simple. On/off, blades, oil, and different guards depending on the length you want." He picks up a guard, turning the plastic over in his hands. "Do you mind..?" I ask. 

He shakes his head, and I turn the clippers on. I trim the left side of his hair, then put the machine back in his hands. 

"Darlene has this little thing, see?" I turn, facing the wall and pointing a small handheld mirror to the larger reflection behind me. "If you angle it right, you can see the back of your head." 

He mimics my movements, examining the back of his hair with disdain. He places the mirror face-down on the sink. "Why can't I just let it grow out?" he asks. 

I shrug. "You can, if you want. Do you like long hair?" 

He looks at the brushes and products strewn across our sink. Sharing a bathroom with my sister again has increased the number of items in my life tenfold. "Long hair is pretty, but it seems like a lot of work." 

"I agree. That's why it's good to learn how to cut it yourself." 

He shrinks back. 

I don't know how to talk to kids. What would you say if you were here?

"You don't have to learn right away. It's hard to do something when the person teaching you is angry." 

"She's always angry." 

The image of my mother's bedroom in the nursing facility flashes through my mind. I think about the nurse's remarks on her friendly demeanor. 

What kind of person finds it easier to be kind to strangers than her children? 

"It's not your fault." 

I even out his hair, and show him how to use a small brush to clean the blades. 

"Next time you need help cutting your hair, you can find me, okay? I promise I won't get mad."

He gives me the same unfathomable expression as my mother had when I interrupted her earlier admonishments. 

Shit, did I say something wrong? I'm too high for this. 

"Thanks," I hear. Barely a whisper. 

Later, I wake to find Darlene, sitting beside me, downing a glass of juice. 

"Good morning, sunshine. Actually, it's noon." 

"How long have you been there?" 

"I just sat down. I'm not watching you sleep like a weirdo. Not my fault you get all your beauty rest on our only communal furniture. Nice haircut by the way."

I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the short bristles against my skin. 

Darlene hops up, tossing her cup onto the stack of unwashed dishes in our sink. 

"I'm going out. Take your meds!" 

I wave her off, but exhaustion wins again, and I'm asleep before she's out the door.


	4. Familiar Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based in part on the Red Wheelbarrow, a companion piece to the TV show. (Elliot's journal from S2). I haven't actually finished it yet since it's one of the few parts of the Mr. Robot universe still new to me. I want to cherish it. 
> 
> If it ends in a way that contradicts this arc, I may revise the plot. But for now the words are coming to me, and I haven't written in a decade. I don't want to stop now, you know?
> 
> Also. I love Carla & I love Eve Lindley.

When I answer the knock at the door, I can't believe who I find. I would have expected Tyrell Wellick to show up at my home first. Wishful thinking on my part. 

Hot Carla.

Just Carla. 

She's already talking. Why did I open the door? 

I'm not ready for this. 

"...sent you a letter. Gotta admit, your response was pretty weird. At first, I thought...well, I didn't know what to think." 

Sometimes I wish my day could start with an audience rating like they show at the beginning of every film. An explicit expectation. Just to brace myself. I don't need to know what's going to happen, even I'm not delusional enough to believe I could predict the future. But a warning would be nice. 

"I don't..." 

"Remember? That tracks. You basically said you suffered some head trauma and are experiencing severe memory loss and unfortunately you don't remember me. You wished me well. It was actually pretty sweet. Which is how I knew it wasn't..."

Head trauma. That's one way to put it. 

Carla sighs and glances to the dark hallway behind me. "Are you gonna invite me in?" 

Here we are again. A foot in the doorway. Do I step aside?

Instead, Flipper pushes her small nose between my calves. 

"Hello cutie! Who's this?" Carla kneels instantly, cupping the dog's face between her hands. Her nails are nice. Lilac. 

"Flipper." I find myself reaching for the leash and cloth mask hanging on the doorknob. "She probably needs a walk." Flipper leaps in the air, a freeform cloud of black fur. She's so excited I'm worried she'll pee in the doorway, but we make it down the steps and into the grass. 

"How are you doing?" I ask. 

Normal. Polite. 

I can do this.

"I'm okay. Leon hooked me up with a place and I've been doing transcription work from home." 

At the mention of Leon, the tension in my muscles subsides a bit. Regardless of his professional alliances, Leon is something of a guardian angel for the people he cares about. Knowing he is looking out for Carla provides a wave of reassurance I didn't know I'd been seeking.  
I could have checked in with her. She wrote to me, so we must be friends. I know how she was treated while we were in prison. But once I was out I didn't look back. 

The thing about survival mode is that it can turn into selfishness without any intention of cruelty. 

And now she's here. 

"I haven't been working." I lack the energy to offer further details. 

"I don't blame you. Well, we're supposed to social distance anyway." 

We walk together for a few blocks, following the invisible scents that lure Flipper forward.

"I have a hard time walking her."

"Why? She's so sweet!"

I toss a bag in the trash bin and shove my hands back in my pockets. "I don't do it often enough. And then when she messes inside all I can think about is... what I should have done differently."

"Well you're walking her now. She seems happy."

Across the street, men drill into the ground, and cars swerve into the opposing lane to give them space. Flipper has no interest in them, occupied with circling Carla's ankles in adoration.

"Yeah."

She twirls around to untangle herself from the leash, and we veer off the sidewalk into a small park. A few kids play on a swingset. A man naps under the swooping branch old tree, sneakers kicked up on a backpack, baseball cap covering his face. The kids push each other into perfect arcs just to see their friends launch into the air and go tumbling to the ground. And then they run back for more.  
I imagine the bruises I'd be left with. The past couple years have really done a number on my body. 

Carla sits on a nearby bench, and Flipper immediately springs into her lap. Beneath her blue paper mask I can tell that she's smiling; her eyes sparkle and she doesn't seem to mind the coarse fur as she scratches Flipper's ears and back. 

I wish I could feel what they're feeling. Content to be the center of another being's orbit. However briefly they spin. 

A memory of the three of us - Carla, Leon and I - sitting in the cafeteria. Leon and Carla bantering about a character from a show I hadn't seen. I remember the dimples in her cheeks as she laughed. 

I almost want to invite her back to the apartment so that we could remove our masks. Although to be honest I like wearing mine. 

I sit down. 

"You said you wrote to me?" 

She nods. "Just once. It wasn't very long. And after I got a letter back I thought maybe I should leave you alone. But... I needed to return something."

She reaches into her coat and pulls out a marbled composition notebook. The binding is worn from use and there are burn marks on the cover. 

My chest hollows out. 

I can't do this.

The man at the base of the tree stirs, tipping his hat back. He rises and pulls a familiar coat from the bag, donning it and the bag in a quick motion. "I told you that notebook was a stupid idea, Elliot!" he shouts over his shoulder, and then begins to walk away. "But you never listen. You're on your own, kiddo."


	5. Don't Leave Me Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing stays the same. So I want to be the one changing it."  
> -Carla, eps1.91_redwheelbarr0w.txt

Okay. 

Okay. 

Okay. 

Stay conscious. 

What was that grounding exercise?

Grab something. I look down and see my knuckles white from gripping the bench beneath me.

The swingset spins. 

Am I collapsing? 

"Elliot, I just want to you to know-"

"Wait." 

Inhale. 

Ten, nine, eight. 

She knows. 

Seven, six, five. 

Cool metal pressure against my forehead. 

Four. Three. 

The barrel of a gun. 

Two. 

A small click. The safety is off. 

I exhale slowly, jaw tighter than iron. 

I remember Krista's voice, somewhere far away. 

Co-... something. 

Nervous systems. 

Calm. 

Fight or flight. 

Calm. 

It's Carla. She's not going to hurt us. 

I will my hand to unclench and run my fingertips along a splinter of jagged wood. 

I am in my body. 

My body is on the bench. 

The bench is on the grass. 

The grass is rooted in the earth. 

Zero. 

When I open my eyes, there is no gun. The swingset creaks gently, vacated. 

"Can you put it away?" I ask. 

She nods, stowing the book away again. 

"Thanks." 

I light a cigarette and blow the smoke straight into the sky. Mr. Robot is nowhere in sight. 

He wrote in the notebook too. 

My stomach turns. 

He wrote to you. I wrote to you. 

Are you upset? You never got to read it. But Carla did. 

I think about the dozens of hard drives, nuked and left to burn in obscurity spinning in a microwave. 

The years I spent carefully covering my tracks. Everything from evidence of cyberstalking my therapist to the most mundane internet search history. Eradicated. 

But fire couldn't burn this book. 

I drop the cigarette to the ground and crush the embers with my shoe. 

Do you trust her? 

Leon does. 

I glance at Flipper, now dozing off in the sunlight. 

"You're safe, Elliot." Carla hesitates like she's deprogramming a bomb. "I can go away, if you want."

Is that what I want? 

The solitude I've been chasing as long as I've been alive. I try to steal memories from people yet she's openly offering to forget. 

I've lost so many friends. 

No... I've lost people. I reject friendship. 

I turn away and run. 

I talk to imaginary people instead. 

But... 

you must get sick of me. I get sick of me. 

Maybe we could let someone in. 

I stand. Carla starts to pass me Flipper's leash, but I take it and loop it around the foot of the bench. 

All those days we spent behind bleachers, loitering at the furthest corner of the prison yard. Trying not to be seen or heard. 

"Do you want to sit on the swings?" 

I feel awkward. Too big for my body. She thinks I'm nuts. No, she knows I am. 

But she's already moving. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

We sit side by side. I keep my feet in the sand, still wary of my tenuous relationship with gravity. Carla grips the swing chains between both hands, kicking higher and higher. 

Maybe this won't hurt. 

Maybe... 

She's not upset. She's not running away. 

She came to find me. 

Maybe it will hurt. 

I watch Carla's long hair sway behind her. Her shoe flies off and her laughter rings like a windchime. 

Maybe it will be worth it.


	6. Floorside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: drug use. 
> 
> This scene pairs with the song "I Can't Handle Change" - Roar. 
> 
> If I were to burn this scene onto a DVD and file it away with the rest of Elliot's "music collection," this is the song title I'd sharpie across the top.

Withdrawal is bad, but withdrawal is distant. Tonight there is only disappointment. 

I miss getting high with Shayla. 

I want to cry. 

I'm so parched I doubt I could speak let alone produce tears. I can't stop swallowing. 

My throat is numb. 

For someone who hallucinates everything from the sound to physical altercations with other parts of my personality, my visual recollection for long term memories is exceptionally poor. I realize this safety mechanism - retconning my own history whether I like it or not - may have been necessary for my survival. 

But along with violence and abuse disappeared traces of hope and beauty. The years advanced. The lovely days were covered up from view. 

I wish I could see Shayla's face. 

Am I a one or a zero?

I've been both. 

I could have done more; I should have done less. 

_Nothing I do is ever good_

I want to take it back. I want her back. 

_Leave me alone_

Fuck. 

What was supposed to last me two weeks is dwindling by the hour. 

I don't feel a thing.

_I can't help but repeat myself_

Do you know about quantum immortality?

_I know it's not your fault_

I wonder how many times I've died. The number of hard reboots. It always feels the same. Reality slips sideways; the resolution decays. Peace and fear clinging to one another because they're all the other has. In the end you don't want to be alone. 

_Still lately I begin to shake_

But I always wake up. 

_For no reason at all_

Maybe Shayla woke up. Just somewhere else. 

_For no reason at all_

Shayla. Angela. Trenton. Mobley. Romero. 

_For no reason at all_

Whiterose. She was closer to understanding me than anyone. A whole life spent trying to undo a single event. 

_For no reason at all_

And now they're gone from here.

We wanted so badly to believe. Now they're gone and I have to keep on believing. 

_For no reason at all_

I close my eyes and sink into black rainbow static. 

Can you hear it too? The music?


	7. Letter to a friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks have passed. Carla checks in.

_Hi there, friend. Remember me?_

_What, did you think you'd be stuck in one mind for the rest of eternity? I don't see how this any different from Elliot writing to you in his notebook._

_Okay, so I'm doing it on the back of a microwave instruction manual. I work with what I've got._

_The thing is - I haven't seen Elliot in a week, and neither has his sister. And the stranger thing is, last time we spoke, I mentioned I hadn't heard from Leon since the two of us were supposed to eat together on Thanksgiving. So you can see why I'm worried._

_I'm not sure how you can help, but... something in me just told me to reach out._

_I hope you're okay._

_Your friend,_

_Carla_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://imgur.com/a/s8aFbfs


	8. For Him, For Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot out of sight. Mr. Robot up 2 something. (Again).

** Elliot doesn't know this about our time in prison, but I didn't always take over to deter him from a mistake or start a fight.  **

** Or create chaos. A purpose invented for me in his paranoid imagination.  **

** That's what no sleep and too many enemies will do to you. Paranoia. Defensiveness. Rage.  **

** Mastermind, he is not.  **

** So sometimes, I just let him sleep. During laundry, only when we were alone, I would step in to fold. He would wordlessly hand me the fabric and shuffle away, for all his hyperviligance, barely perceiving my presence.  **

** And he calls me the robot.  **

** Normally, in these dreamless sleeps, Elliot would vanish from sight. But once, after I pulled out several loads from the dryer at once, I looked over to see I was not alone after all.  **

** I didn't like the idea of any young person being in that hellhole, let alone my son. And I was tempted to wake him or find Magda - but since he was asleep in the warm pile of fabric - I let him rest.  **

** I was also fairly certain that waking the young boy would wake Elliot back as well, and I'd be out.  **

** Elliot also didn't know that despite my constant push to keep him away from creating attachments there - seriously, of all places, the kid decides to start making friends in PRISON, and nearly got us both killed with that stunt helping Ray - I had nothing personal against Leon or Carla for that matter.  **

** And there were times that unknown to any of them, I would sit and listen to the conversation and eat.  **

** So I got to know the two of them a little.  **

** And Leon saved our asses more than once. I think we owe the guy.  **

** I'll fill Elliot in later.  **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Mr. Robot's voice, I did not do much editing. I just wanted to keep going. I am an extreme perfectionist but I don't think there's any amount of preparation that can fix that haha I'll get better!! 
> 
> Happy 1 year anniversary of the finale!


End file.
